


Homecoming

by NumberA



Category: Claymore
Genre: Gen, POV Third Person, canonverse, for once :P
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:50:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6583882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NumberA/pseuds/NumberA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men of the Organisation team up with a group of mainland warriors to hunt down and kill a yoma that escaped the Claymore island. Written for the April 2015 fuckyeahclaymore.tumblr.com fanwork challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

   Subject Tomus Darlus of the Frankish division of the Department of Augmentations was a cross, ill-tempered man, whose narrow, beaked face crouched beneath the dome of his forehead like a lizard under a rock. Long years of dissatisfaction had soured his countenance to a dour mask, animated solely by greed, anger, and fear of injury to his person - a prospect foremost in his mind as he burst into the room where Lesser Principal Broagus slept, crying bloody murder.  
   ”You fool!” he screamed as the young sailor started awake. “You bloody-minded, insubordinate blockhead! I’ll have you court-martialled for this! They’ll flog you bloody and leave you for the crows!”  
   ”I do not understand you, sir!” L.P. Broagus cried, “”Pray, speak plainly!” He glanced in mute appeal at Sb. Leuen, who had followed his colleague into the room, but it was Darlus who answered.  
   ”There’s been a breach!” he howled, red-rimmed eyes bulging. “A yoma is loose in Alba and it’s all thanks to -” he broke off, cursing himself for his careless use of the classified term. Leuen, seeing an opportunity to calm the situation, stepped forward.  
   ”It appears that a Frankish monster smuggled itself aboard when we sailed last fortnight,” His voice was even, and what could be seen of his face behind his dark spectacles was composed, but his manner had none of his usual smug amusement. “Due to our, admittedly understandable, failure to follow established quarantine procedures, it is now loose on Alban soil.”  
   ”No....” L.P. Broagus blanched, his expression evolving from puzzled alarm to glassy-eyed horror. Every Alban knew the tale of the corrupt, faithless Franks - a people so wicked that God himself smote them with a plague of monsters a century before. He had seen the ruined villages that dotted the dry, rocky coast of their broken island during the supply run, and had heard the older sailors talking grimly of horrors during their watches. That, and the need for absolute secrecy that had been pressed upon him by the ship centurion, had given the emptiness an ominous feel, and he had been glad when those cursed shores had sunk below the horizon.  
   Then came the wreck. Eight days into their voyage, the boiler of the _Sidonia_ burst, killing all but thirteen of the souls aboard. The survivors had continued along the original course, until an unseasonably severe storm came upon them two days later, blowing them north up the Gulf of Kings and back the way they had come. After days of tempest, the skies cleared enough to reveal a line of hills that told them they were within reach of Giant’s Harbour. L.P. Broagus had, in spite of Darlus’s most vehement objections, commanded they sail for it at once, citing worsening weather and the unseaworthiness of their by now quite battered vessel. At the time, the immediate peril of drowning had carried considerably more weight than the nebulous warnings of his passenger, but now he wondered if he had traded a clean death at sea for a murkier fate at the hands of Augmentations.  
   ”Are you quite certain?” the young officer whispered.  
   ”Quite,” answered Leuen. “The bars on the window of Cunningus’s room have been bent aside with a strength no man possesses, and the Subject is gone.  
   ”What must we do?”  
   ”We must send an electrogram to Urba Alba!” cried Darlus, “Telling them of your - “ he shot a poisonous glance at L.P. Broagus “- _misjudgement_ , and pray that our wise and merciful Emperor looks kindly upon our failure.” Leuen nodded.  
   ”Indeed we must, but before we do so, I suggest we consider our options: Giant’s Harbour is a port of some strategic significance - it may well be that there are silvereyes among the garrison here.”  
   ”Truly?” Darlus stared at him, his face almost hopeful with desperation.  
   ”Silvereyes?” L.P. Broagus looked, if anything, more upset, and reflexively made the sign against evil. “How could such creatures possibly aid us?”  
   ”They could find the monster,” explained Leuen. “If we subdue it quickly and discreetly, it is possible our superiors may regard our actions more favourably. In my opinion, it is likely that the creature has not yet left the town and thus, if we act quickly and secure their aid, we may yet be able to contain the breach.”  
   ”Then why are we wasting time in talking!” shouted Darlus. “Let us seek them out forthwith!”

   Not a quarter of an hour later, Darlus and L.P. Broagus strode along the long hill that bounded the south side of the harbour. Leuen had, perhaps wisely considering the foulness of the weather, stayed behind at the quarantine-house to address any incidents that might arise in their absence. Darlus was glad of this. He disliked Leuen - there was something about his tinted spectacles that gave the man an untrustworthy air - and found his calm complacency grating. In truth, he had not wanted anything to do with L.P. Broagus either, but Augmentations in its secrecy had neglected to grant him evidence of his membership, and he needed the credibility the junior officer brought to his request for assistance.  
   As they walked, the two subjects rehearsed their story: they were to say that had been transporting a ‘beast’ - the Alban term for ‘Awakened One’ - on behalf of Augmentations when their ship was wrecked, but, apart from this crucial emendation, left the sequence of events intact, trusting that the reputation of the Department would prevent much in the way of inquiry. A few minutes’ discussion sufficed to get the details straight, and they spent the remainder of their journey in tense, damp silence.  
   The sentry, who hailed them as they drew near to the moderate fort, must have thought it unlikely that anyone would be out in such miserable conditions without good cause, for they were escorted to the centurion’s office after only minimal questioning. Similarly, the Centurion, older than Darlus and clearly at the end of his service, dispatched his aide to fetch one Octus Littela as soon as he heard the phrase ‘Department of Augmentations’. The aide returned quickly, accompanied by the strangest sight Darlus had ever seen.  
   He had glimpsed silvereyes before - most Albans had - but twenty years of Frankish warriors made the monster-woman before him seem as alien as the moon. She was short, too short, to one accustomed to the tall islanders, and her face was lined. Her close-cropped hair was a light, somewhat mousy brown, and her eyes, though silver, regarded him with mild confusion instead of the guarded hostility to which he was accustomed. When she opened her mouth and spoke, it was to say “You called. Sir?” in clear, fluent Alban, heavy with the accent of the Western shores. She could have been a fishwife in the town market.  
   ”Yes,” replied the Centurion, and Darlus realised he was staring. “These subjects are from the Department of Augmentations. They require the assistance of your octant in handling a most delicate matter.” The octus nodded and stepped forward to stand beside the centurion’s desk. As soon as Darlus and L.P. Broagus told her about the ‘beast’, she suggested they involve her subordinate, Quarto Niva, who had served on the wallforts in the southeast, and had experience dealing with such monsters. The Quarto, when summoned, had the straw-blonde hair and youthful look Darlus associated with warriors, but the Iudaic cast of her features made her nearly as strange as the Octus. She understood at once what they were about, however, and they soon formulated a plan.  
   When they were finished, L.P. Broagus, his part performed, elected to remain behind at the fort and take his breakfast. Darlus, accompanied by Octus Litella, proceeded to the armoury while Quarto Niva went to fetch the remaining silvereyes. There were five besides the officers, and, though all wore the white tunic and black trousers of Alban legionaries, Darlus was struck by how they differed both from each other and from their Frankish counterparts. Their features were marked by age and hard use, and only one other had the straw-blonde hair Darlus associated with their kind. The rest were colorheads - little better than failures according to the standards of Augmentations in Frankhold. He knew their Alban counterparts were constrained to volunteers from the general population, and that they struggled to achieve the results seen on the island, but had failed to appreciate how great the difference was. He wondered if perhaps the unsavoury theories of the research team were correct, and that loathing towards yoma was indeed the principal driver of warrior strength. If so, it was no wonder that the creatures before him now, who knew nothing of the monsters whose flesh they bore, were so feeble.  
   ”Where’s Walla?” demanded the Octus when the others had assembled.  
   ”In town, sir,” said the blonde. “She went out last night and ain’t come back yet.”  
   ”Bloody typical,” snarled the officer. “It’s important, too. This subject,” she gestured at Darlus, “Is from Augmentations. There’s a beast loose in town and it’s up to us to kill it.” Tension rippled through the five soldiers at these words.  
   ”A beas’!” cried a young-looking redhead in a thick Urban accent, “‘ow the fuck are we supposed to ‘andle one o’ them? Ain’ tha’ a job for subs?”  
   ”It’s weaker than most,” said the quarto in a strong, authoritative voice. “Not much stronger than you or me. Any of us could handle it alone so long as they kept their wits about them.”  
   ”We have a plan to kill it, too.” Said the Octus, stepping forward. “I’ll take Catta, Capsa, Mallara, and form a perimeter to the north between the ocean and the New Acton Road. Argenta, Gladia, you’re with Quarto Niva to the south. Shoca,” she looked at the redhead, “You will accompany these subjects into town to flush out the beast and drive it towards the perimeter. If the occasion permits, you are also to locate Munifex Walla and pass on this order to join me to the south. Do you understand?”  
   ”Yessir!” The redhead saluted smartly, though the prospect of confronting a beast alone left her visibly shaken.  
   ”Quarto Niva” the Octus said, turning to her subordinate. “You’ve fought beasts before, have you any thoughts on how best to arm ourselves?”  
   ”Greatswords are favoured by the Subductii and others who fight such creatures regularly,” said the Quarto, gesturing towards a row of weapons Darlus found almost brutally familiar. “But I would advise you arm yourselves with what you’re most comfortable with. That said, beasts are quick, agile, and tough, so hand-cannons are less suitable than edged weapons unless you’re sure you can hit the head or heart. As for armour, I recommend breastplates but not helmets. The loss of visibility is not worth the extra protection.”  
   ”You heard her,” said the Octus looking around at her troops. “Hop to it!”

   The legionaries were quick to arm themselves. Before long, Darlus was galloping back towards town on horseback with the seven silvereyes beside him. He was a poor rider, and those bound for the perimeter soon drew away, leaving him alone with the red-haired soldier. As they passed the row of small cottages that marked the outskirts of the harbour town, Shoca observed, in a somewhat uncertain tone, that she could ‘smell’ something.  
   ”What?” cried Darlus, leaning down towards her, “What do you mean?”  
   ”The beas’, sir, I can smell i’. Toward the center o’ town,” A wave of relief all but swept Darlus from the saddle.  
   ”Then let us make haste, lest it depart!” he cried, leaning over the neck of his horse and lashing the reins.  
   ”Yessir,” said Shoaca, who found his eagerness to seek out such a creature quite disconcerting. “Bu’ migh’ we not fetch Walla firs’? She’s on the way an’ is the beastlies’ of all of us. We may well be glad o’ ‘er strength later.”  
   ”What do you mean?” he demanded, “Are the strongest amongst you not your officers?” That was how it was for Frankish warriors.  
   ”No sir!” exclaimed Shoca, “Walla’s the shtunkiest, aye, an’ after ‘er Gladia. She’s alrigh’, but Walla’s a wrong ‘un. Strong ‘uns are wrong ‘uns, sir, you don’ wan’ ‘em givin’ orders.”  
   “Very well, then” said Darlus. “Let us fetch your comrade, but if the beast moves, we give chase.”  
   The streets grew crowded as they proceeded, their course drawing them towards the morning market. The drizzle had abated somewhat and the town residents, long since hardened to far worse, were going about their daily business. It seemed to Darlus, accustomed as he was to the arid emptiness of Eastern Frankhold, that everywhere he looked were throngs of people: shouting and jostling, filling the wet air with noise and the stink of fish. He felt the uneasy pressure of Shoca’s yoki, her ‘beast’, as he must call it now, on his consciousness, and, though on his departure from Frankhold he had looked forward to relief from the unsettling presence of half-yoma hybrids, it was now almost a comfort.  
   ”If you do not decide upon command by strength, then how are your ranks determined?” He asked, hoping to distract himself from the unpleasantness of his surroundings. Shoca had not expected him to make much in the way of conversation but, being somewhat inclined to chatter when nervous, was quick to answer:  
   ”I ain’ though’ much of i’, sir, bu’ if I did I’d say i’ was bein’ a steady sort. Y’don’ wan’ yer officers to be a-beastin’ on yeh. Look at the Octus, aye, she’s a volunteer. Joined up five years ago to feed ‘er children after ‘er poor ‘usband lost ‘is legs in a sea-battle. Volunteers ‘ave an easy time of i’, aye. A comman’ post in ‘er ‘ometown and it’s ‘ome to the family er’y nigh’. She ain’t beastin’, not if she can ‘elp i’. No’ like Walla. She din’ come so easy, no, the strong ‘uns ne’er do. Sold by ‘er pa, she was, to pay off ‘is debts. We’re supposed to join free when we’re of age, aye, and the gold we get fer signin’ up is supposed to be our’n, but they wan’ us too bad to look too close.” She spat. “Y’don’t cut kids. They grow up lookin’ to run wild. I know I’ve go’ the look of i’, aye, bu’ I got cu’ at twenny when the ‘ouse I was workin’ a’ - aye, i’s no matter. As for cu’ kids, why I knew a girl on the southern border…”she trailed off into a long, rambling story made quite unintelligible by the thickness of her accent and unfamiliarity of her vocabulary.  
   As the legionary talked, Darlus found his mind wandering. He hated this loud, stinking place where a man couldn’t get properly dry, and wondered how a sentimental vision of the olive groves of his youth could ever have tempted him into leaving the desert quiet of the Frankish base. It was the wine, he remembered. Frankish vintages were, at best, not to his taste and they had only grown yet more inferior with time. Their beer, however, was tolerable, and the smoky, subtle drink they called ‘whiskey’, was superb. Regrettably, the campaign against the Awakened in the north had destroyed the last of the great distilleries - Darlus himself had finished off the last bottle of Dabi blend not six months before. It had been then, as he tasted the final golden drops, that he had realised he had consumed the last of the fine spirit on the island, and must return to Alba if he were to preserve the quality of his collection.  
   ”Wai’ ‘ere, sir,” said Shoca, starting him from his reverie. They were in a narrow alley that, judging by the refuse strewn about them, abutted a number of wine bars and tabernas. The legionary stepped up to a nearby door and rapped smartly upon it. It opened, and she stepped inside, leaving Darlus alone with the vermin that had gathered to pick among the scraps. A smell of frying fish wound through the air. Layered over the stench it could not be called appetising, but it served nonetheless to remind him how famished he was.  
   Before long, the door burst open and Shoca emerged with another, clearly blonde, silvereye slung over her shoulder.  
   ”Sorry ‘bou’ this, sir,” she said, “Bu’ this nudnik’s too bloody shnickered to smell what’s righ’ under ‘er fuckin’ nose! I’ll have to ‘aul ‘er aroun’ like the great useless winesack tha’ she is, aye, ‘til she sees fi’ to sober up.”  
   ”If you must,” said Darlus, “Where is the beast?”  
   ”’s not moved, sir - I don’t think it’s realised we’re ‘ere.” She shrugged, jostling her inert comrade and snarled “Yeh ‘ear that yeh bloody klafte! This Subject ‘ere says it’s real, aye, yeh gonna smarten up then?” With that, three of them set off down the alley.  
   They were almost at the end when Shoca stiffened, staring fixedly into the nearest wall. Almost at once, Walla, in a burst of heady vapour that made even Darlus’s eyes water, sprang from Shoca’s shoulder and landed on her feet.  
   ”What the fuck was that!” she cried, her eyes alight.  
   “I’s the beast, inni’?” yelled Shoca, “D’yeh think I was tellin’ fairy stories?”  
   ”It’s making a run for it! Southeast! It’s going for Argenta, the neyvish bastard!” She leaned over and with a quick, deft motion, snatched Shoca’s heavy shortsword from her belt. Then, in a burst of yoki that made the hairs on Darlus’s neck prickle, she sprang away.

   Anna Walla soared above the rooftops, thrilling in the chase. She was a vigorous, bloodthirsty creature, ill-suited to service in the sleepy harbour town. Before the outbreak of peace, she had served as a cataphractus on the eastern wallforts where the delights of her life had been drink, battle, the savagery of her companions, and the savour of enemy flesh. She’d known beasts before, had even fought alongside them, and had long wished to test her strength against theirs. The one fleeing from her now was exceptionally weak, true, but there was a ragged edge to its scent that promised a good fight. It was certainly a match for Argenta. Walla heard her hand-cannon fire and miss, felt her fall, and by then had drawn close enough to see Quarto Niva rushing towards her.  
   ”Walla!” the officer barked as she dropped to her knees beside the wounded legionary. “Where do you think you’re going?”  
   ”Hunting!” Walla cried, landing beside them in a spray of grass and mud. She thought the Quarto dull and rigid, but the officer had seen many years of hard combat and Walla respected her enough to hear her out. Besides, it was highly unlikely that the beast would elude her now that she had its scent, and there was little joy to be had in a too-short hunt.  
   ”Not without armour you’re not!” growled the Quarto, turning her attention to their injured comrade. “Munifex! What’s your condition?”  
   ”Been better,” winced Argenta, “It’s a beast alright, ugly klafte. Looks like a hayhead who’s beasting. It’s got a gun, too. Knows how to use it. Shot out my fucking knee as it came running up, it did.”  
   ”Fuck,” muttered the Quarto, wishing she’d suggested helmets after all. Walla laughed.  
   ”Look at you, frightened of a few drops of lead. Cower here and patch yourselves up, I’m going hunting!”  
   She flew through the steep fields and close gullies of the countryside, down the sheep-track her quarry had taken. It had a considerable lead, but she had the legs of it and soon glimpsed it rushing up a ridge crested with sharp plugs of rock that gave it the look of a saw-blade. It went to ground behind one of the teeth, drawing its pistols and training them on the oncoming silvereye. At the base of the ridge, the path dropped to a narrow ford beneath a high bank. Walla leapt it in a bound, racing up the slope towards the beast. It shot her twice but failed to hit her head or heart, and she was upon it, cleaving it in two, even before the smoke had cleared.  
   As she knelt to take its head, it struck Walla that the monster she had slain was smaller and more human in form than any beast she’d ever known. Stranger yet, it had a male look. It seemed odd to her that Augmentations would persist in experimenting on men after the failures of the early years, but that was their business, not hers. She jogged back down the slope, lifting her prize high as the Quarto, Shoca, and Gladia came towards her with the man from Augmentations..  
   ”Here’s your beast!” she called, looking down at them from across the stream.“The fucker had you by the stitches, it did, but it’s dead now! Whaddya want done with it?”  
   ”Burn it!” cried the man. “Burn it at once and speak of this to no one! Augmentations will hear of it if you do!”  
   ”You heard him!” shouted the Quarto. “There’s dry brush in the gully yonder, see to it!”  
   The corpse, as was the way of beasts and silvereyes, burned well once kindled, and they were soon on their way back to Giant’s Harbour. They parted ways on the edge of town, the legionaries returning to their barracks with the horse, while Darlus went back to the docks.  
   ”All tidied up?” Asked Leuen when Darlus found him in the port office.  
   ”Yes, thank God,” muttered Darlus, “I’ll write up a report presently, of course, but before then I must have my breakfast.”  
   ”There’s a taberna nearby that does meals in the Frankish style,” suggested Leuen. “Boules, cheeses, charcuterie, and the like. They don’t call it that, to be sure, but it’s what it is. They even have spring ale!”  
   ”Really?” exclaimed Darlus. He thought Frankhold survived in Alba only as a cautionary tale. Leuen nodded.  
   ”This was the port from which island-bound ships sailed, and many Franks fled here after the Fall. They’re long dead, but their grandchildren remember the old country. The officer of the port, to whom I owe the recommendation, is one such.”  
   ”Humph,” scowled Darlus, “Well there’s hardly anything left of it now, is there? Where did you say this place was?” Leuen pointed out the small window, towards a sign that read ‘Teresa’s Taberna’ in Alban script. Without further comment, Darlus left the office and strode towards it, hoping they had his favourite smoked sausage, and desperate to get out of the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge shout-out to my awesome betas Damon and Sophie for their feedback and guidance. As for this fic, I wrote the first draft in April 2015 when the fanwork challenge was 'Rain' and finished it in April 2016 when the challenge was 'catch up on previous challenges'. I think it works for both ^^;


End file.
